what a long strange trip it's been
by clairebare
Summary: spoilers for episode 6 and beyond. patrick takes a twisted journey till the dust settles. multi-chapter. some language.
1. Chapter 1

1

The Taromenanes tribe is what anthropologists call an uncontacted tribe. Which means very few people can vouch for their existence. And they don't have cable.

I can confirm for scientists that they do indeed exist here in the rainforest on the right hand side of Ecuador and, as of yesterday, so do I.

Just don't tell the coppers.

I arrived last night through the help of some very slippery characters, myself included. I told the head man of the tribe that I'm a fugitive from the law who wants no contact with the outside world. He replied, in the indigenous language, something on the order of "Our societal framework is that of a self-governing collective." I took it as "Sure, whatever."

I always thought I would be in jail or dead when the Red John showdown was over. I don't know what'll become of me. I'm worried about Teresa. I hope she's not paying the price for what I've done.

It's morning. The very comely Yuhupde, the chief's daughter (what else?), brings me a sarong type garment. Though I don't feel one-hundred percent about the snakes and insects having free access to my nether regions, it seems to make the Taromenanes more comfortable with me.

I come out of the hut they've provided and sit on a hollow log and do some magic tricks for the kids. To them, everything is magic. I actually don't have to do much of anything. The mere existence of buttons is magic. Same goes for my handkerchief. My hair.

The kids are fascinated with my hair. Yuhupde's fascinated with my hair. Yuhupde brings me something to drink in a hollow coconut shell. All the Taromenanes seem very much into my hair.

2

Whoa. I just dodged a bullet there.

At the last moment I realized what the Taromenanes charge for room and board. How do I put this?

If my mentalist antennae weren't open for business, I might have drunk what was in the coconut. And woken up the next morning, sarong awry, very sticky and very sore. I believe a blond strand would have been added to the local DNA.

I have to get out of here. And drink only bottled water.


	2. Chapter 2

3

I am strolling through the jungle in my three-piece suit. I left the Taromenanes tribe, as a thank you gift, an unopened pack of Trident Layers. I hope even now they are savoring the Orchard Peach as it sparkles in counterpoint to the Ripe Mango.

It's getting dark. I make my way along the banks of the Napo River, a major tributary in the Ecuadorian Amazon, expecting any moment to become some creature's amuse-guele.

Something big is out there around the bend. The noise is deafening. I dodge behind a plant.

The most frightening beast I've ever seen lurches into view.

The Anakonda River Boat. Jewel in the crown of Amazon cruise ships. Somebody art-directed the shit out of it. It's a mixture of Elle Décor and Gilligan's Island. Air-conditioning, probably Jacuzzis and fusion cuisine. Quinoa risotto, that kind of thing.

The three decks are dripping with middle-brow Americans drunk on Bellinis and singing along with Andrea Bocelli's "Con te partirò." Perfect.

As Bocelli's voice reaches the crescendo, I step out from behind the plant into the ship's spotlights. The lights play over my suit and illuminate my hair. I spread my arms and stand there Stiles-style (I always wanted to say that).

The Americans are riveted. Several of the Ecuadorian crew draw guns. They're perfectly willing to shoot me. After all, they've been entrusted with the lives of sixty or so Americans. And tips, while not necessary, are encouraged.

Bocelli's voice fades. I smile and bow. The Americans burst into spontaneous applause. "Ladies and Gentlemen. At the gracious invitation of the captain of The Anakonda, I, Patrick, am here to bring you an evening of entertainment as rare and mysterious as the rainforest itself. Prepare for a glimpse beyond the beyond."

The excited Americans shake the captain's hand and pound him on the back. At his nod, two young Ecuadorian mates push off in a little raft and taxi me back to the ship.

That worked.


	3. Chapter 3

4

I sit drinking tea in a coffee shop in the La Mariscal area of Quito, the second largest city in Ecuador.

I open my laptop. Amazing that I have a laptop. I google "Patrick Jane." There are a lot of entries. Blah, blah, dogged pursuer of Red John. Blah blah, ended killer's reign of terror. Blah blah to this day, the vigilante, Jane, eludes justice.

None of the entries say: All is forgiven. Now we realize yours was a noble quest. What the hell were we thinking? Please come home and live what's left of your life.

Almost two years after arriving here, there's no indication that California or the US Government will do anything other than clap me in irons if I show up.

I have a little place in Quito. I bought it with some of my winnings from that night I spent on the Anakonda River Boat. Most of those vacationers turned out to be wealthy Midwesterners. I know quite a bit about conning those folk. I did a little psychic stuff then moved on to an all-night poker game. I got off in Quito, gave the captain thirty grand and stuck the other half-million in my breast pocket. I'm sure he would be happy to take me along every time he makes the trip.

I thought I could be happy down here. Living on my own in South America is an excellent alternative to being dead or in prison. But I miss the US. And I miss Lisbon. Painfully. That one snuck up on me.

I wish I could go back to her. She deserves a man who'd risk everything for her. Sometimes I think I should just go back and hug her and tell her I love her and call the cops on myself so she doesn't have to make any decision about what to do with me. She'd probably kick my ass for that.

I intend to go back. But I'm going to take a different approach. I need the help of people who can relate to someone like me. To someone who'd pursue a vicious killer for years and years.

I watch an elderly man enter the coffee shop and order his usual double espresso. He is spry and thin and neat and behind his cute little glasses, has a close set pair of homicidal eyes.

I smile at him as I always do. Jorge Guzman nods back politely as he always does.


	4. Chapter 4

5

Senor Guzman and I have taken to playing chess in the neighborhood park on Saturday afternoons. From not so subtle hints he's given me, he would be pleased if our relationship went beyond friendly. I don't encourage this but I don't discourage it either.

One afternoon, he tells me how he particularly likes my coloring, blond and blue-eyed, it seems, is his favorite. He goes on to admire how my profile and jaw line confirm my pure Nordic heritage. Something my father's mother, Elizabeth Levin Jane would have found amusing. Especially since she's the one in the family I most resemble.

Senor Guzman is a scumbag of the first order. I've been tracking him for a long time. His real name is Gerhard Gesselmann out of Wiesbaden, Germany. Though he came to be a concentration camp guard late in the war (he was sixteen), from my research, it's clear that he personally racked up an impressive twenty-five prisoner kills. Most of them women and children. In particular, women and little girls.

Some pain-in-the-ass of a psychologist would chalk this up to the unformed adolescent brain and youthful high spirits. However, my further research shows that he pursued his avocation after he escaped to Ecuador. Many times.

Herr Gesselmann is old, eighty-seven. Perhaps he should be left to live out his days in peace.

Nah.


	5. Chapter 5

6

I am on my way to Senor Guzman's (also not known as Gerhard Gesselmann's) house. He is preparing a nice little afternoon tea for us and has high hopes that I'm finally going to allow him to run his hands over my Aryan body. The body he doesn't know is actually one-half Irish, one-eighth French, one-quarter Jewish and one-eighth African-American. Boy, did he get a wrong number.

I would prefer to conclude our business in some public place but I have been advised that it's proper to break up with a war criminal at his home.

As I walk along, I think about Lisbon. When the CBI fell apart, the career she fought so hard to build was gone. One ill-advised decade with me and the little green frog fell down the well again. She's now out of sight, a sheriff in a small town.

I want to make it up to her. Pluck her out of a life of hauling drunks from the local tavern and place her on a bigger better stage. Also, if I can, to reclaim…no, claim her as my own. I have a plan.

Jorge opens the door. His house is pathologically neat. He shuts the door and locks it. There is another guest for tea. Also, there is no tea. Just Jorge and a ripped blond man named Dieter. I know he's ripped because he's only wearing a leather thong. He slams me against the wall, flattens himself against me, pins my arms over my head and licks the side of my face.

I hadn't counted on this. They're looking at me like I'm a pork chop. The tea table is carefully set with chains, knives, whips and other implements.

When a serial killer is attracted to you, I guess you shouldn't expect an engagement ring. I wonder how many other men Jorge and Dieter have had for tea.

I'm starting to get worried. Feels like the time Dr. Linus Wagner pursued me through his office building with a gun and Rigsby was late.

Speak of the devil, every door and window in Jorge's house is simultaneously breached by members of the Mossad, Israel's Secret Service. Think of a dozen Cho's coming to your rescue.

Jorge curses me as he's bound with his head in a canvas sack. One of the agents replies with a Nazi-hunter version of "Michael Corleone sends his regards."

In less than a minute, we're racing through the streets of Quito in a large black van. Feels like old times. We drop Dieter off at the Police Station with all his toys and a full confession that I and one of the Mossad guys extract from him.

An hour later, Jorge, me and my homies are on a helicopter that lands on a deserted airstrip in the rainforest. We board a private jet.

7

It's a blue and beautiful evening. I walk the streets of the old city and hear the tinkle of music and life from café windows. I am munching a pita sandwich filled with falafel, cucumbers, tahini and yogurt. If Lisbon were here, I would do everything in my power to get her to try it. Her Midwestern taste buds and her general stubbornness would force her to proceed directly to McDonald's.

I don't think Lisbon has been out of the US except to Mexico, maybe Canada. This place would enchant her and move her. A woman of faith could be very happy seeing all the holy places. I believe I could also make her happy in my suite at the King David hotel. Soon.


	6. Chapter 6

8

I'm in a taxi on my way to Soho. There's a great Indian restaurant called The Red Fort there that I patronize as often as I can when I'm in London. Lisbon would wrinkle her nose but once I plied her with my hot curry kisses, I know she'd learn to like it.

I'm reading the Times of London which has a front page story about The Mossad's capture of Jorge Guzman.

Traffic is ridiculous so I get out a few blocks away and hoof it. People are headed to dinner, for drinks, to the theater. My passport says I'm Richard Parker, like the tiger in Life of Pi. Richard is having a high old time.

I think about my recent escapade. The Israeli government wanted to reward me for gift wrapping a war criminal for them.

I didn't want medals or money. I didn't want publicity that would force them to acknowledge my presence and then have to extradite me to the U.S. It's best that they act like they never saw me, to keep things on the down low. I shook hands with my government contact. He said if there were ever anything they could do for me, he hoped I wouldn't hesitate to call. Nice man.

I slip through the door at The Red Fort. Smells delicious. At the bar, sits a red-haired china shepherdess of a young woman. This is Miss Tamsin Wolcott, a secretary for British Secret Service. I've noticed her at this bar a few nights running.

I sit and start chatting her up. I order her a Pimm's Cup. I order a martini. I arrange four drink straws parallel on the bar in front of me. When I place the fifth diagonally across the top of the rest, she opens her little clutch bag so I can see a dvd inside. We finish our drinks. I slip the dvd out of her bag. She gathers her things and leaves. Just as she always does when a guy places the straws in the right formation.

9

When I contact the Brits, they're very happy to have the identity of the person in the Secret Service that abetted a terrorist organization in an attack on a school. They too want to reward me for plugging a leak they didn't even know they had. One that would have resulted next in an underground station being bombed. I don't want fanfare or compensation. They say, Mr. Jane, if you ever need anything, give us a call.

Thanking them very much, Richard Parker hops the Chunnel train to Paris.


	7. Chapter 7

10

The fifth arrondissement in Paris is home to The Sorbonne. I've been hanging around the area. Eating at the Balzar. Seeing films near St. Sulpice. But mostly poring over old newspapers in the university library.

My french has stayed with me. I have no formal training. I learned the language from Madame Belle Poitrine, a thirty year-old high wire artist who took me to her bed when I was fifteen. After six months, I could name every single part of the female anatomy in French. Some that I still don't know the name for in English.

Perusing old newspaper articles, I've deduced the likely identities and/or whereabouts of three serial killers who've been at large for many years. Two in France and one in Belgium.

Tomorrow, I'll take the train to Brussels and end the reign of the elusive Monsieur DeClerq. Christmas will come early to the Brussels police department and to the families of his twenty-seven victims.

Then I'll train back to Paris, drive out to Giverny, and finger Mademoiselle Legros as she leaves her job as cook for the local nursery school. Fourteen children in eighteen years. Talk about letting the fox in the henhouse. Even Hanigan could have solved this one.

Then it's back to Paris where I'm expecting Monsieur Dumas to deliver to my hotel a small Napoleon III étagère I bought from his stall at the Marché Paul Bert. There, instead of getting to kill me (and keep the étagère), he will meet the very eager police officers of the 7eme.

11

That went swimmingly. Three shpos (sub human pieces of shit) behind bars, a tasty thank you lunch with my contact in the Belgian government, and this morning, breakfast with an impressive woman who's the Minister of something or other in France.

After breakfast, I did some last minute shopping. I spent a lot of money in a very short time. Then back to my hotel to pack my bag.

Which brings me here to the Café de La Croix Rouge where I sit outdoors with a beer and their special sandwich. Roast beef on grilled points of Poilane bread with mayo and cornichons. It's pretty nippy out but the French have a special relationship with discomfort so no matter how cold it gets, no one wears more than a blazer and scarf and everyone sits outside.

I check my watch. I see I have time for a cup of tea. The crabby waiter brings me a small pot. Marco Polo by Mariage Frères. Hard to get in most places so as part of my shopping this morning, I stocked up.

I asked the French Minister if she wouldn't mind extraditing me to the U.S. If you're going to end your exile, Paris seems the perfect place.

And here's my ride. Long shiny vans and cars with those crazy European sirens going off surround the café. I ask for the bill. The crabby waiter seems to admire the fact that I'm being arrested and in solidarity brings me a slice of apple tarte gratis.

A familiar voice behind me says, "Hey Jane." Cho. He joined the FBI and now he's here to bring me home. I stand and give him a bear hug. He returns it. "I missed you so much, man." I say. "You're in a lot of trouble, Jane." "Let's not worry about that, Cho. How's tricks?"


	8. Chapter 8

12

As we slide into one of the gleaming vans sent to arrest me, I slip Cho a small pouch with some personal items. Cho doesn't blink an eye. What a surprise.

At Charles De Gaulle, we board an Air France flight for San Francisco. My party occupies the entire first class cabin. The food is pretty good. Bastards won't let me have champagne though.

On the flight home, I talk and Cho mostly listens. Representatives of the FBI, CBI, CIA, Interpol, the US Consulate, Sac PD and a few guys who appear to be members of Ralph Kramden's Racoon Lodge all sit mute. Bunch of stiffs. Cho is Robin Williams next to them. I tell him that. His expression doesn't change.

We land at San Francisco Airport. The press, all there to tear the flesh from the bones of the venal killer, are allowed to glimpse me as I'm led along in tasteful strands of chains, my three-piece suit and my scarf still tied just so.

13

I wind up in the familiar orange of the Federal Correctional Institution at Lompoc. Cho comes to visit and tells me that they're going to try me quickly so the FBI and CBI can appear to have their acts together.

The charge is murder in the first degree which gives the government the opportunity to ask for the death penalty.

Two years ago, I wouldn't have cared so much. But now I find myself in the weird position of wanting a life.

I ask Cho if he'll go visit Teresa and convince her to come and see me. He nods and leaves. Typical Cho.

A minute later, Teresa comes in.


	9. Chapter 9

14

The guard shuts the door of the visitor's room. Teresa takes a seat on the other side of the thick glass partition. She looks apprehensive and sad and lovely and thoroughly pissed.

"I love you," I say. She turns white. Her fists clench.

I continue, "I promised myself that would be the first thing I'd say if I ever saw you again. Took me ten years to recognize it. But…I can be a little thick."

Her mouth opens. No sound comes out. The silence ticks away. She closes her eyes.

"Fuck," she says to herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She looks at me, she sighs and then, she spreads her small hand flat against the glass.

I am ineffably, unreasonably happy. I place my hand to mirror hers.

"I love you too, you bastard. I didn't mean to come," she says. "But when I saw you on TV, I realized I'd rather be miserable with you than miserable without you."

"You know, from what they say on TV, the chances are pretty good that you won't get to be miserable with me. Or not for long anyway."

She squares her shoulders. One tear rolls down her cheek, "Then I'll take what I can get."

"However, despite the terrible odds the Vegas bookies are giving on this case, I intend to beat the rap," I say.

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "They've spent two years putting together their case, Jane. First-degree murder looks like a slam-dunk. You managed to make sure of that."

She pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. "I don't think they'll ask for the death penalty, you have too many fans among the public. But I don't see a jury letting you walk twice on a murder charge. And one that took place in a church, no less."

She continues. "Add to that the fact that while dismantling Red John and the Three Dot brigade, you embarrassed some very powerful yet not corrupt people who are now regarded as fools for letting all that dirty business go on under their noses."

"Why'd you come back, Patrick?" She called me Patrick and I really liked it. "You've evaded them for two years. You could have stayed invisible."

"The only way I could get you was to get visible."

Her lips tremble. "You could have sent me a message. I would have… disappeared with you."

"I inhabit that world naturally, Teresa. You don't deserve that kind of life. I thought it was time to come back and face the music."

She snaps into her professional mode. "OK, Jane. The first thing we'll do is get you the best trial lawyer we can find. Now I can make some calls-

"Not necessary." I give her my widest smile. She stops talking. I let the smile take up residence on my face.

Her eyes pop out of her head. Her face gets red.

"Dammit, Jane! Don't you tell me you have a plan!"

"OK, I won't tell you I have a plan."

"You son of a—"

"Teresa, consider it handled. Don't bother your pretty little—"

"My pretty little…I will kill you, Jane! I'll come in there and I'll kick your—"

"Oh look," I say. "Here's our friend, Cho."

Cho walks back in the room. Teresa breaks off her tirade. She stands.

Cho gets down on one knee in front of Teresa.

She says, "Cho, what the hell are—"

Cho pulls the silk Mauboussin box out of his pocket.

He flips open the box. He's doing a great job here. I'd marry him.

He reveals the ten-carat emerald cut flawless diamond set in platinum.

I once traced Teresa's hand while she slept drooling. (Also traced her boob but that's another story.) So I was able to get the jewelers at the Mauboussin shop at Place Vendome to cut a big diamond perfectly scaled to her small finger.

Teresa can't get her eyes off the ring.

Cho looks over at me with that baleful glare.

"Teresa," I say. "I love you. I wish I were on the other side of that glass to do this myself. But when I am, I would be honored if you'd marry me."

Before she answers, her tiny finger starts twitching. No flies on Cho. He slips it on her.

She turns to me. "I do!" She gives herself a little slap on the cheek. "I mean, I will. Yes. That would be nice. Good. Thank you. So kind."

She kisses the glass window one-two-three-four-five times. Her knees buckle and she slides down out of sight.

That went well.


	10. Chapter 10

15

The guard comes to my cell and tells me I have visitors.

Visitors, plural?

Not just Teresa, empress of my heart? Guess I won't bother coming up with a new way to entertain myself by pissing her off. Like maybe ask her to take her blouse off. That might get a rise out of her.

I'm led into the visitor's room. There on the other side of the glass are Teresa and Cho and…how shall I put this? That fat fuck Abbott of the FBI. He grins like a snake that swallowed a dirigible.

Lisbon is nervous.

Cho is sitting.

"Patrick," Abbott says, "how nice to see you again. Hope you're finding your accommodations to your liking. Yuk-yuk-yuk." Putz.

"Charmed, I'm sure," I reply.

The guy's not actually a blimp. Nor do I have problems with larger people. Note my regard for JJ LaRoche. What Abbott is is someone who takes up way too much psychic shelf space in this small world of ours.

Besides, the fat fuck was mean to Teresa.

"You know, Patrick, everyone in law enforcement thinks the world of your skills."

I put my elbows on the table before me, rest my chin in my hands and listen like I'm enchanted. Jon Stewart would say, "Go on."

Abbott continues. "I'm here to offer you the opportunity to walk out of here today, a free man, cleared of all charges."

"What would I have to do?" I smile.

"Exactly what you're good at," Abbott says. "Just work with us at the FBI to investigate and close cases."

I confirm each point of the offer. "Walk out of here today?" Abbott echoes, "Walk out of here today."

"A free man?" I ask. Abbott repeats, "A free man."

"Cleared of all charges?" I ask. Abbott says, "Cleared of all charges."

"Work for the FBI?" I ask. Abbott says, "Work for the FBI."

I tote the points up on my fingers. Abbott is excited. Champing at the bit.

I list, "Walk out of here today. A free man. Cleared of charges. Work for the FBI?"

Abbott nods. I consider it for a millisecond. Wrinkle my nose.

"I don't think so."

I stand. Abbott bolts out of his seat. Lisbon wants to kill me. Cho is reading.

I turn to leave, then swivel back.

"Tea cup?" I point at Abbott.

Abbott chuckles, he's relieved, "Of course we'll get you a tea cup, Jane."

I summarize, "Walk out today, free man, cleared of charges, work for the FBI, tea cup?

Abbott's become a smiling bobble head.

I appear to think for a beat. "Hmm…I don't think so."

I head for the door.

Abbott's mouth is hanging open. Teresa's going to kill me with her death beams. Cho's stopped reading.

I turn back again.

"Couch?" I say.

Abbott says, "I'm sure your couch is in storage and we'll get it for you."

I count it down again. "Walk out today, free man, clear of charges, work for the FBI, tea cup, couch?"

Abbott just looks at me.

"I don't think so."

Abbott stalks out of the room.

Teresa is beet red.

Cho drops off his chair and rolls on the floor laughing.


	11. Chapter 11

"You stupid, impossible, self-destructive son of a bitch." Teresa is doubly angry at my messing with Abbott because Cho, her stalwart supporter in all things sane, is still laughing. Laughing so hard, he's hiccupping.

"Sorry, Lisbon, couldn't do it. Remember the guy whose nose I tweaked? Remember when Bosco arrested me? Same general principle. I'm not going to be his bitch. I'll see him in court."

"Do you realize that I could have gotten my job back, Jane? That we could have worked together? Been together?" I can see she's about to rent her garments. "You have to apologize. Tell him you were still jet-lagged. Tell him you'll take the offer."

She comes up close to the glass partition. Whispers, "You and I could consummate our relationship. Like…tonight. "

"Tempting as that is, Teresa, I'm not going to let you be his bitch either. Do you realize what it would be like to be under Abbott's thumb? I spent ten years living at Red John's pleasure. I won't let that happen again."

She sinks down in her chair. "They're going to throw the book at you, Jane. And Abbott will make sure it's a big coffee table one. They have all the evidence. There were witnesses. You chased a wounded unarmed man through a public park and strangled him as he begged for mercy."

"You know what, Teresa? It still feels good. It's a happy little memory, like Christmas."

"Please, Patrick. The judge will not accept the jury bringing in a not guilty verdict. The law doesn't allow it.."

"Trust me, Lisbon. I'll take care of it. Have I ever steered you wrong?"


	12. Chapter 12

This trial is a trial.

The prosecution is parading witness after witness before the court. All attesting to my hatred of Red John and my desire to kill him.

After the twentieth person troops up to the stand and sings the same song, I want to shout, "Alright already. The carcass is no longer recognizable as a horse. We get the point."

The whole thing has been hard on Lisbon. The prosecution called her up and ripped into her saying that because she assisted me in my vigilantism, she now is a disgraced law enforcement officer who'd had to retreat into ignominy as a crummy sheriff in a crummy town. Oh, and that she'd been my doxy all those years at the CBI. I've always wanted to object. So I rise and say, "You sir, are a lying blackguard. But nice use of 18th century synonyms for trollop."

Ignominy. Hypocritical bastards. If not for Lisbon, the CBI, FBI and most of the talent agents at CAA would still be working for Red John. (Actually, CAA agents are much much meaner than Red John.)

In my book, wherever Lisbon leaves is ignominy.

Still, they've made their case. They've proved beyond a reasonable doubt that I said I'd kill Red John and that I did so.

Despite it all, I can see that the jury would like to acquit me. Five of them would definitely sleep with me. Three of those are women. Four of the men laugh at everything I say. Which is mostly, "No questions, your honor." A guaranteed laugh. Stoners, probably. Three other women like Lisbon, like the ring I gave her, and want her to be happy.

The jury's problem is that if the evidence says I murdered Red John, they must find me guilty. To get on the jury, they had to say that they were objective enough to sentence me according to the law.

But now, after hanging out with me for the last week during which I subtly used non-verbal cues to mold their opinions, they're not so objective anymore. They just don't want to convict.

For the past few days, I've been working my magic on the judge. From the way his pupils dilate and the way he clears his throat, I can see he doesn't much like the idea of sending me up the river either.

Lisbon speaks to me during a recess. "My god Jane, please tell me you have plan."

"I thought you didn't want me to tell you about plans, Teresa. I thought you didn't like my plans." She clenches her fists, "You turned down a ticket to ride with the FBI Jane. That plan hasn't worked so well for you. What do you have up your sleeve."

"It's not what I have up my sleeve Lisbon, it's who I have up my sleeve.'


	13. Chapter 13

"Any other witness…any witnesses at all, Mr. Jane." The judge entreats me. All week, I've basically said, "No questions" whenever the prosecution yielded a witness to me. Well now, my pal, the judge, is going to be so happy. "Yes, your honor, if I may, I'd like to call some character witnesses."

A dark-haired, bespectacled gentleman of a military bearing makes his way up the aisle.

"State your name please," says the bailiff. He replies, "Ehud Barak."

"State your occupation." "Prime Minister of Israel, Retired," the man replies. That gets the court's attention.

Over the course of the next half-hour, Prime Minister Barak relates the events leading up to the capture of Gerhard Gesselmann, Nazi war criminal, by Mossad operatives in Ecuador.

I see tears roll down Teresa's cheeks as twenty relatives of the people Gesselmann murdered stand up in court. The court is buzzing. The judge gets to use his gavel.

My next witness is the Right Honorable William Hague, British Foreign Secretary, who describes the sealing of a leak within the Secret Service that averted the bombing of an Underground station.

The French Minister of Foreign Affairs, Monsieur Laurent Fabius cites the apprehension of two long-sought serial killers whose combined victims numbered 36 people, 14 of them children.

Batting cleanup is The Minister of Justice from Belgium, Mrs Annemie Turtelboom who outlines the capture of a man who killed 27 people over 18 years.

Mrs. Turtelboom makes her way back to her seat. The courtroom erupts in spontaneous applause. The only ones not clapping are the lawyers for the prosecution and the judge. And the judge so wants to.

Teresa is beaming at me. I'm glad to make her so proud. Now she can see I wasn't just napping and sipping tea for two years.

Agent Abbott of the FBI is pissed. He's looking at me like I'm his best girl and he just caught me with some other guy. That's right, Abbott, I've been cheating on you with other intelligence services, better-looking intelligence services who know how to treat an escaped felon right.

The court takes a brief recess. Teresa and I have a moment to speak.

"Jane, I love you." "Thanks Teresa, I love you too." She smiles, "I mean, I really really love you and don't try to one-up me, you jerk." "Ok, I won't." I hold her hand for a second.

"Not to rain on your parade, Jane," she whispers, "but the love and adoration of the rest of the free world doesn't change the fact that you killed Red John. The jury still has to arrive at a verdict based on the facts."

"Patience, Teresa. I'm playing a long game here."


	14. Chapter 14

19

Lisbon tells me that news of my trial and of the witnesses I presented has blanketed the national media for days. The international media is all over it too.

There's a hue and cry from the public to acquit Patrick Jane, a confessed murderer, now Honorary Knight of the British Empire, recipient of the French Legion d'Honneur, recipient of the Belgian Order of Leopold, and honorary citizen of the State of Israel, and throw him a big party with a sit down dinner featuring a choice of chicken or fish, a hot fudge fountain and goody bags.

Since the witnesses testified, the jury has been looking depressed. The judge looks almost green as he instructs the jury once more on the law and how a verdict must be determined solely on the basis of whether it's been proven that I murdered Red John. While doing so, he refers to me as Sir Patrick. This is gonna be good.

Judge and jury avoid my gaze. Observers in the courtroom boo and hiss the judge when he gives his instructions. The poor bastard looks like he believes he deserves it.

I watch CNN that night and see coverage of a midnight vigil. Thousands of people surround the governor's mansion with candles.

Word comes out the next morning that despite pleas from private citizens and people in government and law enforcement, the governor will not exercise his power to pardon me. Lisbon says he's one of the big wigs I poked when I revealed the depravity rife in the police, the FBI and the CBI.

Since he's unpopular with the voters and has no future in public life, his actual words were, "Patrick Jane? I don't care how many foreign fucking big shots he fucking parades through the court, fuck him." Nice mouth.

Teresa visits me in jail while we wait for a verdict. She's in tears. "Was that the plan, Patrick? A pardon? If it was, it didn't work. You've pissed off everyone in California. The governor more than most."

I put my hand on the glass partition, "I'm sorry, Teresa. Will you do something for me?" "Anything Jane. You know I'll come visit you as much as they'll let me. And…and maybe we can get married and they'll let us have a conjugal wedding night."

"I'm sure it won't come to that, Teresa. The game is still afoot." She wipes her little nose with the back of her hand and smiles bravely. "Will you do something for me?" "Yes, yes," she sobs. I slip her a piece of paper through the small opening in the glass. "Go to this address and check it out." She looks at the paper, "This is near the place where you killed Red John." "That's the question, Teresa. Is it near the place where I killed Red John?" "Patrick, I can see from the address that it's definitely-" I stop her. "Teresa, just trust me?"

She pockets the slip of paper and leaves.

20

I get word that the jury is coming back. I wait in the courtroom. The judge slumps at the bench. The courtroom's packed. The prosecutors pat each other on the back. The woman who's done all those flattering sketches of me dashes off yet another. (I think she would sleep with me too.)

The judge orders the bailiff to bring the jury in.

They drag themselves to their seats looking like they just put their dogs to sleep. Some of the jurors mouth the words, "I'm sorry." Like Lorelei with the pliers. I nod reassuringly.

At that moment, the doors at the rear of the courtroom burst open and Teresa Lisbon runs in holding a rolled up paper tube like it's the Olympic Torch. Hair flying, chest heaving. My little track star.

She skids to a halt in front of me. I stand and say, "Your honor, before the jury renders its verdict, may I bring an important piece of new evidence before the court?"

The prosecution immediately objects. Harrumph, harrumph, harrumph, in the strongest possible terms.

"Duly noted, Sheldon, siddown." The judge waves him off then turns to me. His honor's lips say "Ok." But the rest of him says, "Thank god."

I pull the paper out of the tube, take a look and smile. Good old-fashioned police work. Have I mentioned lately that Lisbon is the king of everything?

"Your honor, I would like to call Teresa Lisbon to the stand."

Teresa looks beautiful. Shiny straight dark hair, pale green eyes, translucent skin. Crisp white cotton shirt, classic, yet somehow avant-garde. I would know. It's Yohji Yamamoto. I picked it up along with the ring my last morning in Paris. Cho has been keeping it. I asked him to give it to her last night. Her slim small hands are folded calmly in front of her. Her ring burns the corneas off anyone who looks at it.

I begin, "Ms. Lisbon, can you look at this document and describe what it is for the court?"

Teresa says, "This is a map of the corner of Green Lake Park, a small city park in Sacramento, California."

"Thank you, Ms Lisbon." I say, "Can you refresh the court's memory as to the relevance of this area to this case?"

She points with her wonderful little finger, "Right here, near the bushes, is allegedly where Thomas McAllister, also known as Red John was killed."

I ask, "Ms. Lisbon, what do you mean by your use of the word allegedly? Was he not killed right here in a corner of Green Lake Park?"

Lisbon replies, "No, he was not killed in Green Lake Park, he was actually killed two feet over the property line on the grounds surrounding 2800 Cottage Way which borders Green Lake Park. There was a correction to the boundary line between the two properties that the city surveyor adjusted 2 1/2 years ago. If you're working with a map older than that, it might not show up. In fact, Google has it wrong. So I checked with the Chief Surveyor himself, this morning."

The prosecution rises, "Objection, your honor, the defense is bringing in frivolous information."

The judge asks, "Mr. Jane, will this information turn out to be frivolous?"

"Frivolous? No, your honor. Fun? Quite possibly."

"Objection overruled, you may continue, Mr Jane."

"Thank you, your honor. Ms. Lisbon, were I to go there, would I find a building at 2800 Cottage Way?"

Teresa graces the world with a hint of a smile. "You would find a medium-sized office building. It's the headquarters of the Regional Solicitor."

"Regional Solicitor, what's that, Ms. Lisbon?" Now I'm starting to annoy myself with my questions.

"2800 Cottage Way houses the Regional Solicitor of The Department of the Interior specifically the Environmental Protection Agency." Teresa's grinning from ear to ear.

I smile, "So you're saying Ms. Lisbon, that 2800 Cottage Way is—

"A federal building, yes. Red John was killed on federal property," she says.

DOING! Everyone in the court does googly things with their eyes and says his or her version of holy shit. It's pretty funny to observe.

Press people run for the doors to make phone calls and file stories.

Lisbon is talking to me. I can't hear her. I lean way in. "Jane, you do know that this whole thing will have to be re-tried in a federal court, don't you? And you'll still probably be found guilty."

I pat her hand. "You know, Lisbon, despite what the governor says, some people do care about how many foreign fucking big shots I fucking parade through here."

The judge bangs his gavel. It takes about 15 minutes but the court finally calms down eager to hear the other shoe drop.

At this point, a tall elegant man in a simple dark suit and red tie holding a smart briefcase walks into the courtroom. He's got everyone's attention.

He says, "Your honor, my name is Jacob Crew. I work for the U.S. State Department. May I approach the bench?" The judge, with an expression that reads "what fresh hell is this?" beckons him.

Teresa and I don't know what to do so we just hang out at the witness stand.

Jacob Crew pulls a sealed white envelope from his brief case and hands it to the judge. The judge breaks the seal and reads what's inside. Looks like somebody may be about to get an Oscar. One corner of the judge's mouth keeps tugging upward. He must get killed at poker.

The judge nods at Crew. Crew pulls a cell phone out of his briefcase and hits one number. He says, "Sir, yes. Thank you, sir."

He hands the phone to me. "Mr. Jane, the President would like to speak to you."


	15. Chapter 15

The chic receptionist answers the phone.

She enunciates, "EM-EUH-ASH Bureau D'Investigation. Monsieur Cho? Je vous le passe." She connects the caller to Monsieur Cho.

"EM-EUH-ASH Bureau D'Investigation. Monsieur Jane est en reunion. Voulez-vous laisser un message?"

She tells the caller Monsieur Jane is in a meeting. But the truth is, he is leaving early for le weekend. Let them eat cake and then, let them leave a message.

I take the elevator down and step out onto rue de Bac. A workman is painting our business name discreetly in gold-leaf on the glass door.

M.E.H Bureau D'Investigation.

M.E.H Investigations, for all you Americans out there.

M.E.H is owned by Monsieur Cho, Monsieur and Madame Rigsby and Monsieur and Madame Jane.

Rigsby and Van Pelt are based in the U.S. but also cover Canada, Latin America and South America.

Cho handles Japan, China, Korea and most of Southeast Asia.

Lisbon and I are based in Paris but cover the rest. Europe, the UK, the Middle East, Africa, Australia and New Zealand.

Cho is currently working out of our Paris office since he's trailed a human trafficker here from China. Also because he's currently dating every model at the Elite Agency.

I cross rue de Bac, pick up some éclairs at Dalloyau on rue de Grenelle and head for my car.

Oh, did I mention the President pardoned me? Very nice man.

He said he was briefed daily on my California trial proceedings and when he heard the governor wouldn't pardon me, wished he could help. So when word came that the Red John murder was in federal jurisdiction, he just pressed the button and made it happen in twenty minutes. These state department guys know how to get on the stick.

He most wanted to know how I figured out that I killed Red John on federal land.

I told him I recalled that there was a different kind of grass on that spot. While throttling him, I noticed that the park was planted with Buffalograss and the patch where the bastard went down was planted in Blue Gramagrass.

I knew the grasses were different. I knew there was a federal building in the area. And I knew that if anyone could prove my hunch it was Madame Jane née Lisbon. She even brought grass samples in little glassine evidence bags that she always carries.

After my release, I walked out of the courtroom. Lisbon was waiting out back where we stood a chance of escaping the press. She had somehow gotten hold of my Citroen. She let me drive it to the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco where we took an elevator up to the 1920's penthouse and didn't come down for a week.

On our way back to Lisbon's place, she checked her voice mail and her email. There were thousands of messages asking for our help with criminal investigations all over the world. Thus, we founded M.E.H.

We flew to Paris along with Kimball, Grace and Wayne, booked rooms at the Ritz and a week later, Lisbon got her church wedding at Sainte Chapelle. We needed a special dispensation to do so and the Foreign Minister was able to swing one for us. Lisbon was happy to be married in the prettiest church in the world and I was happy to be married to Lisbon.

Since she is world-famous, the couturiers fell all over themselves to design her wedding dress. Here's what I love about Lisbon. She chose Karl Lagerfeld and just let him do what he wanted. No bridezilla she. Teresa figured if he designed Chanel, he could probably whip up something nice for her. Didn't even try it on beforehand. Just slipped into it, looked smashing, got into her Mini-Cooper and drove herself to the church to meet me.

She told me to pick out a nice restaurant. I picked Le Grand Vefour. If it was good enough for Napoleon, Josephine, Balzac and Colette, I thought it might do the trick for us. It was a beautiful dinner for 5 happy people.

Afterward, we all walked back through the garden of the Palais Royale, then past the Pyramide in the Cours Napoleon and back across a bridge over the Seine to the Ritz.

We were almost too wasted to have sex. Almost.

Her barbarian family flew over a week later for a civil service and a big party. After, we put them on a tour bus where they may still be today.

Business is good at M.E.H. I get personal requests from intelligence services all over the world. I sometimes do work for the FBI except if Abbott is involved.

I am happy to report I can now piss people off in four languages. Lisbon still always manages to smooth things over.

I get into my Citroen. Yes, the same car but it blends in better over here. I drive over to meet Lisbon for dinner before we head out for the weekend. Where? Wherever she wants. Always.

I step into the restaurant, Le Voltaire, where they know me from even before I met Lisbon. I get hugs and handshakes from the staff.

They usher me to a table where a leggy sylph of a woman wearing a white mini-dress covered in black patent leather gardenias with flat over-the-knee boots sits talking on her cellphone. Her stick straight chin length platinum blonde hair frames her face beautifully.

This must be Lisbon. Though I suppose I should make sure before I maul her right here in the restaurant.

Recently, Lisbon's gotten into working undercover and with typical panache, she just lets Monsieur Lagerfeld reinvent her look for each new assignment. This has its benefits for me.

I hope she'll keep the wig on later.


End file.
